The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

palm. He twisted his wrist, seeking the source. The strange sensation evaporated.
    “The bastards my grandmother bore Hanic now rule that clan and claim my lands.” Kammeryl’s roar rattled the cups on the wobbling camp table as he restated the ancient grievance.
    “Bastards? More than one? Perhaps ’twas not a kidnap, but an elopement,” de Tanos said quietly. Too quietly. The tug of a grin banished the mask of shadows. Nimbulan returned the grin. ’Twouldn’t be the first or last time a noble bride foresook a political marriage for love. Quinnault sucked at his cheeks to control the smile. The mask of shadows returned.
    Without the Tambootie in his system Nimbulan couldn’t penetrate the secrets behind those shadows. But he’d had too much already. He didn’t want to grow dependent upon the weed.
    The void stripped away lies and delusions to lay bare a soul in the same manner. Nimbulan reviewed the vision of lords dancing in harmony he had experienced in the void. Had he seen the essence of de Tanos in the patterns and not recognized it? He shook his head clear of the puzzling vision. He had to concentrate on the present.
    “You dishonor the memory of my grandmother, a queen descended from the Stargods!” Kammeryl’s scream of rage drowned out the wind.
    “The land you fought over yesterday was your grandmother’s dowry. She bequeathed it to her son by Hanic, a symbol of her need to protect the boy. Her son by d’Astrismos claimed it by right of her lawful first marriage to your grandfather. Isn’t it time you and your cousin sat down together and settled the issue?” Quinnault set aside his mug of wine. No grimace of distaste touched his face. Yet Nimbulan sensed the drink had gone sour. The drink or Kammeryl’s company?
    “The time is ripe, my lord,” Nimbulan jumped into the conversation. The bread was gone, as well as the broth and the yampion pie. The sweetness lingered on his tongue. He craved more of the thick tuber baked in cream and eggs, laced liberally with sugar—a favorite treat that Druulin had always reserved for himself.
    Nimbulan needed more fuel for his body. The two lords wouldn’t give him enough peace to fetch more until they settled the argument or took it elsewhere.
    “Consider,” Nimbulan continued. He raised his hand, palm outward, as he talked. “Hanic retreated in disarray. His army is broken, at great cost. He has no resources left to defend his stronghold. A blood oath from you not to pursue and destroy him in his moment of weakness would require a concession from him. What has he left to give you but the deed to the disputed land, signed in blood? He might also renounce all claim to the kingship and put you one step closer to ending this war forever.” He finished his wine. It had indeed gone sour.
    “Another magician already whispers in Hanic’s ear of a way to wrest victory from this defeat,” Kammeryl protested. “I’ll not appear weak by offering peace when I can destroy Hanic and have all of his estates.”
    “Hanic retreated. Certainly that entitles you to claim victory. But at what cost? Your army is reduced to two battalions.” Quinnault kicked his camp stool out from under him and began to pace. “This victory shed more blood than the last three battles combined. The healers are worn to the bone and have called in a local witchwoman to assist them—I shudder to think what her untrained talent will do to our patients. Did the dead and wounded win anything? What about the people who huddle in their ravaged homes wondering if they will have anything left to survive the winter with after two armies foraged through here for supplies? And let us not forget the taxes they owe you for a new pledge of loyalty.
    “No one won this battle, Lord Kammeryl. No one truly wins any war,” de Tanos ended on a sigh of grief. The sweet smell of Tambootie flowers sharpened into the more usual scent of oily leaves and aromatic bark.
    A pang of longing for the taste of the Tambootie sent aches into Nimbulan’s joints. He resisted the craving.
    “My magician won.” Kammeryl glared at the Peacemaker. His aura sprouted black spots, losing its recently restored balance.
    Grief replaced Nimbulan’s urge to indulge in Tambootie. “I won at the cost of murdering my most promising apprentice in order to end the carnage. That is not victory. If we have to kill each other to win your battles, soon there won’t be any magicians left. New magicians are hard to find